A knee in his chest and the pain roared through him. He was close to letting go, no strength in his arms or legs, one more shove and Lenny would be free, leaving Finn on the grass with the plane halfway across the field. The twin-prop was faster now, the air rushing past as Finn held Lenny’s neck in a weak grip. Lenny brought the gun round and pointed it in Finn’s face. Behind them, Amy picked up the rock Finn had thrown and brought it down on the back of Lenny’s head.
He fell forward into Finn, almost pushing him out of the plane, the gun falling from his hand and spinning out of the plane door. Finn put a hand on the doorway to steady himself but Lenny recovered and stuck the heel of his boot into Finn’s chest. He pushed with his foot, Finn grabbing the other side of the doorframe to keep himself inside, but his grip was slipping. He saw Amy behind Lenny again, this time with a piece of rope that she looped around his neck and yanked, the two of them tumbling backward into the cabin.
Finn hauled himself inside and tried to get off his knees but his legs were unsteady. Lenny scrambled at the rope and got it off his neck then turned and punched Amy in the face, her head jerking back and thunking off the cabin wall. Finn threw himself at Lenny as he tried to get up, the pair of them jostling and landing on the passenger seats behind the cockpit. The pilot looked round and shouted something Finn couldn’t hear over the rush of the engines.
‘Get off,’ Finn yelled to Amy, nodding at the open door.
Amy hesitated then got up and ran to the cabin door but they were already moving too fast, the grass outside a blur.
Lenny got a hand free and punched Finn in the face. Finn tasted blood and spat at Lenny, who shrank back and wiped his eyes. Finn threw a fist into Lenny’s guts, the bones in his hand screaming. Lenny doubled over and looked confused, first at Finn then down at his stomach. Finn looked at his hand and saw blood on the metal splint running along the outside of his knuckle.
He punched Lenny in the face with his other hand. He got up to kick him but felt a crack on the back of his skull and stumbled forward.
He turned and saw the pilot still in his seat. He was in his forties, messy beard and a biker jacket, and he was clutching a wrench in his fist. Finn touched the back of his scalp and his hand came away red. His eyes were full of tears and sparks of light. He lunged at the pilot and grabbed the wrench. The pilot was trying to pull the controls up. Out the cockpit window the sea was approaching fast, they were running out of grass before they’d plunge into the water. Finn sank his teeth into the pilot’s hand and grabbed the wrench, then turned and saw Lenny staggering towards him. Behind him, Amy was bracing herself against the roof of the cabin as the plane bumped across the field. Finn swung the wrench at Lenny’s face and caught him square on the jaw, the bone collapsing as his head jerked sideways and he fell to his knees. Finn swung the wrench again and landed it on the side of Lenny’s head above the ear, blood spraying out the wound, the skin splitting to show pink bone underneath.
The plane lurched sideways as the pilot hauled at the controls and lifted the nose a few feet off the ground, but it was lopsided, the right wing higher than the left. Finn fell into the co-pilot’s seat. Lenny slumped to the floor, clutching the side of his head. Amy stood over him, staring at the grey swells of the North Sea fifty yards away.
‘Strap in,’ Finn shouted, nodding at the seats behind her.
She staggered backward and scrambled to click the seatbelt around her waist. Finn did the same thing in the co-pilot’s seat, fumbling with the belt as the loose set of controls in front of him jerked around, the pitch and yaw of them mirroring the pilot’s moves.
The roar of the engine and the landing gear was joined by successive bangs as the cabin door flapped and slammed against the body of the plane. The pilot gave the controls a final wrench to take the plane off the ground. There were twenty yards of grass left sloping down to a thin rocky shore, two sheep scuttling to the side petrified by the noise, the wheels still rattling on the ground, the nose dipping for a second so that they were aiming straight for the rocks, then they pitched up to the horizon, wavered for a moment then climbed higher, the wheels lifting off the grass just as it ran out under them, the engine whining as they took to the air.
The right wing rolled upwards until they were at forty-five degrees to the horizon, Finn slung over in his seat, the controls battering his knees as they span and twisted, the pilot swearing in a foreign language as he grappled with the stick. The plane made a sickening upwards lurch, then another stagger to the left and down, turning too sharply back towards Lamb Holm. They thrust forward along the coastline, still at a terrible angle to the ground, the wings rolling one way then the other, then yawing to the left so that they rushed past the Italian Chapel, the rocks of the beach underneath, then a flip back and they were pitching nose first towards the Churchill Barrier.
Finn heard a noise with the last lurch and looked round. Lenny’s body was flipped over, ten yards behind Amy, lying like a discarded toy. Amy’s hands were on the armrests, eyes wide, neck muscles straining. The pilot had deep furrows in his brow, panic in his eyes. The plane took a shrug upwards, a dying effort, then pitched left and down, flipping almost upside down as the pilot fought with the controls. Finn was aware of the sea at the edge of his vision, then there was an almighty crash and he realised their left wing had hit the water, flipping the plane. A sickening whump and jolt as the fuselage hit the water and the cockpit window shattered, Finn raising his arms to cover his face, broken glass on his skin, a chunk of something battering his shoulder as he was thrown forward by the deceleration, then the shock of the icy water pouring over him as he struggled to breathe.
The plane was sinking fast. The shock of the cold hammered Finn’s lungs. The pilot was gone, Finn couldn’t see where. He unbuckled his belt, turned and saw Amy slumped in her seat, eyes closed, head to the side. He staggered over as the water in the cabin rose to his knees, then up to his waist in no time. He fumbled at the release on her belt under the water, his hands numb. He released the catch and grabbed under her arms, dragged her into the cockpit, the water already at his chest, then with his arms locked around her he pushed out the empty cockpit window frame, water surrounding him. He got outside and found his feet touching the nose of the plane. He kicked against it, coldness tight in his body, the weight of Amy pushing down on him, the force of the water trying to crush him. He kicked towards the surface, grey all around, seaweed clutching his legs in the murk.
He broke the surface with a gasp, heaving in breath, coughing up water and blood, salt in his mouth. Amy was still limp. He looked round, treading water. Lamb Holm was two hundred yards to his left. The barrier was the same distance in front of him. He looked behind and saw an orange buoy, the kind they use to mark lobster pots, only thirty yards away. He was no great swimmer, he could do two hundred yards in a calm, heated pool, but not here. He headed for the buoy though it felt counter-intuitive, swimming away from land. He kicked and paddled on his back, Amy across his chest, the cold seeping into his bones. He kept pushing and was surprised that after a few minutes he was at the buoy. He threw one arm around the rough plastic and heaved Amy’s weight closer to him with the other.
His body shook as he looked around. He knew where the plane had hit the water, but already there was no sign of it. He scanned the choppy surface and spotted someone swimming towards the beach. Looked like the pilot.
No sign of Lenny.
He turned to the island. A handful of figures stood at the Italian Chapel, stark against the building. In the car park were three police cars and an ambulance, lights flashing.
He shouted in their direction.
40
Linklater looked up from her notebook. She seemed worn through, skin pale and stretched, hair in a greasy ponytail. Finn wondered how he looked to her, with all his injuries. He straightened his back and cricked his neck, blades of pain slicing through him. He took shallow, careful breaths and tried not to upset the equilibrium of his body.
‘
I did warn you,’ Linklater said.
They were back at the police station, this time with the official tape going and the jowly cop in tow. Linklater sighed. She’d asked him to finally tell the truth, and for the last hour he had, all of it, all that he could remember anyway. He’d hoped his injuries might buy him a day or two in hospital, put off this little chat. But the ambulance crew at the scene saw to his cuts and bruises, and the superficial gunshot wound to his thumb, and he was deemed fit for interview.
Amy was in hospital. A police dinghy had picked the two of them up from the buoy after a few minutes. Some paramedics scurried around her for a while, then she was taken to the Balfour. According to Linklater she was awake and had no serious injuries. Concussion, the damage from Lenny’s beatings, but very lucky.
The police also picked up the pilot, a Norwegian called Gunnar according to his wallet. He refused to speak without a lawyer, but they’d been in touch with Norwegian police and he was known to them, had spent time in prison for drug-smuggling out of a fjord south of Tromsø.
Finn waived his right to a solicitor, which was maybe why Linklater cut him some slack and filled him in about the others. Police divers were in Holm Sound examining the wrecked plane, trying to find Lenny. Another officer was taking a statement from Ingrid.
Maddie was gone.
Finn grabbed a few words with Ingrid while he was being treated in the ambulance and she told him that Maddie had bolted just after Finn left the chapel, taking Ingrid’s car. Finn checked his pocket and sure enough, his car key was missing. He told Linklater to check the boat in Orphir. They sent an officer, who found Ingrid’s car parked with the key still in it, the boat gone. The coastguard was scrambled. They were still searching, but had found no sign of her. Maybe she really sailed across the Pentland Firth. Maybe she even made it. Then what?
Maybe she hadn’t gone across the firth at all, but hid the boat somewhere along the coast to throw them off, then doubled back and got the ferry. The cops were looking for her there too so she couldn’t just walk up, but there were plenty of delivery trucks she could hide inside, maybe sweet-talk a driver into keeping her out of sight.
Finn was relieved to be telling the truth. How she flirted with him, how she walked away from the crash. How she called him and he went running, doing as she asked, hiding her, screwing her. How he betrayed Amy and lied to Ingrid.
He wasn’t in the clear about the murders yet. They had various DNA samples from the two murder scenes, but nothing so far that matched the swab they took from Finn. That didn’t mean anything, of course, what they needed was a positive match to Lenny or Maddie. But Lenny was on the seabed somewhere and Maddie was AWOL. Even if they got a match it might not be conclusive, Linklater said, given that the two murder scenes were Maddie and Lenny’s homes anyway.
He thought about the bag of money, presumably still in the Norwegian plane.
He thought about Lenny and Maddie. He told Linklater what they each said in the chapel, that the other one committed the murders.
‘Indulge me,’ Linklater said, arms spread. ‘What do you think happened?’
Finn thought for a long time.
‘I think Lenny killed Kev,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. Either because of Kev and Claire or the money. Maybe both.’
‘And you think he killed Claire too?’
Finn nodded.
‘Why?’
‘Maybe she knew he killed Kev. She seemed scared when I met her. Or maybe he thought she knew where the money was. Tried to get it out of her but it went too far.’
Linklater pursed her lips. ‘So you still don’t think Maddie had anything to do with the murders?’
Finn pictured her kicking at him, trying to push him out of the moving car. He pictured her unbuttoning her blouse in the Lewis place, leading him to the bedroom.
‘No.’
‘We’ll see,’ Linklater said. ‘Where do you think she is now?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
There was silence between them for a time.
‘You stepped into a real nest of snakes, didn’t you?’ Linklater said.
Finn just looked at her.
Linklater flicked the pages of her notebook back and forth. Eventually she looked up, and Finn wondered if he saw sympathy in her eyes.
‘For now, I’m willing to believe you didn’t kill Kevin Pierce or Claire Buchan. Though the evidence might prove otherwise.’
‘Thanks.’
She waved a hand in front of her. ‘But the rest of this. Perverting the course of justice, obstructing an investigation, aiding and abetting a wanted suspect, possibly assisting a murder.’
‘I never did that.’
‘And that’s not even including the plane crash,’ Linklater said. ‘I mean the first plane crash. Depending on the powers that be, that could be terrorist charges.’
‘I’m not a terrorist.’
‘It’s out of my hands.’
‘Couldn’t you put in a word for me?’
Linklater stared. ‘Why would I do that?’
‘You know I’m not a bad person.’
Linklater shook her head. ‘I don’t know anything of the sort.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I need a break. Interview terminated at four thirty-five pm.’ She reached over and pressed stop on the recording device.
‘You are a fucking idiot,’ she said. ‘You know that.’
‘Yeah.’
Linklater nodded at the door. ‘Get some fresh air, it could be your last chance for a long time.’
41
He went to the toilet in the police station and splashed water on his face. He looked in the mirror. He remembered looking in the mirror of the toilet on the plane, squinting at his fuzzy image, thinking about Maddie, talking to Amy on the phone. All the deception started there, but he’d been deceiving Amy long before that, lying to her about how he felt. Maddie was an excuse.
The door opened and Freya from the Orcadian breezed in.
‘This is the men’s toilet,’ he said.
‘I should hope so, I’d hate to find you in the ladies’. Add it to your long list of indiscretions.’
‘That’s a nice way of putting it.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Is that how you’ll write it up?’
She leaned her head to one side. ‘I might use a slightly more serious tone, given the nature of your situation.’
‘I’m completely innocent.’
‘I’m sure you are.’ She lifted a digital recorder out of her pocket. ‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’
Finn looked beyond her at the door. ‘How did you get in here?’
‘It pays to have local knowledge,’ she said, tapping her nose. ‘My cousin is a cleaner here.’
‘Everyone knows everyone else’s business on these islands, don’t they?’
‘You say that, yet we’ve had murders and affairs and plane crashes and fugitives on the run and God knows what else, and no one seemed to know a thing about it.’
She lifted the recorder and touched his arm.
‘So, my story?’
Finn looked at her for a long time.
‘OK.’
42
He stood outside the Centre for Nordic Studies and stared at the longship. He pushed the door open and the receptionist looked startled. He walked to Janet’s office and knocked twice.
‘Come.’
He poked his head in the door.
She smiled when she saw him.
‘Do you have a minute?’ Finn said.
She waved him in. He slumped in the seat opposite her desk, met her gaze, then closed his eyes. He just wanted to sleep. He listened to the silence, tried to feel empty. But the thoughts kept coming, replaying in his mind. The lurch in his stomach as the plane plummeted through the fog, the look in Maddie’s eyes in the departure lounge, the skulls at the Tomb of the Eagles lining up to judge him, Claire’s hands clutching at the knife handle, th
e feel of the standing stones under his fingers in the sleet. Amy’s face when she knew what he’d been up to with Maddie, the emergency vehicles and their blinking lights, the dead oil workers, that couple sliced up in the front seats, the investigators crawling over the wreckage, the plane like a corpse on the runway, the gin on Maddie’s breath, the taste of her skin.
‘How are you?’ Janet said.
He tried to take a deep breath to quell the panic. He felt like his blood was dying, not enough oxygen, and he put his hands on the armrests of the chair to feel something solid, to attach himself to the room.
‘I’ve been better.’
Silence for a few more moments, Finn’s eyes still closed. Eventually he opened them and looked at her. She had a kind smile and worried eyes. He’d seen that combination a lot over the last few days, from so many people.
Janet spoke. ‘Everything you’ve been through, there are mitigating circumstances. You know that.’
Finn shook his head. Of course Janet had spoken to Ingrid.
Janet leaned forward. ‘Survivor guilt. Post-traumatic stress.’
‘Not good enough,’ Finn said. ‘Those are excuses.’
‘I don’t believe you’re a bad person, Finn.’
He snorted with laughter. ‘I wish I shared your confidence.’ He looked at the flag on the wall, then out the window. ‘People are defined by their actions and my actions have been terrible.’
‘Maybe people are defined by their intentions.’
Finn rubbed at his forehead, then his knuckle. ‘Maybe my intentions weren’t any better than my actions.’
Crash Land Page 19